


I'll Be Talking in the Rain

by DwaejiTokki



Category: Psych
Genre: Bus Stop, Detective, First Meeting, Flashbacks, Gen, It Was A Dark And Stormy Night, Psychic, bad day, rainy day, tom blair's bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 06:53:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10985688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwaejiTokki/pseuds/DwaejiTokki
Summary: As if Lassiter’s day wasn’t already miserable enough, a wacko claiming to be psychic decided that he needed a new friend. AU first meeting.





	I'll Be Talking in the Rain

It seemed that it only rained on the days that Head Det. Carlton Lassiter forgot his umbrella. He scowled miserably under the bus stop awning, drawing his suit jacket more tightly around his lanky torso.

            “Sunny Santa Barbara skies, my ass,” he muttered.

            He leaned out as though a different perspective would magically make the very, very late bus appear. Of all the days for his car to be in the shop, and of course his phone battery was dead! Just hours ago the weather was perfectly fine, and Carlton had walked to Tom Blair’s for a drink after a long shift at the SBPD.

            Lassiter instinctively turned his head at the sound of raucous laughter. A group of young men had just exited the bar, staggering drunkenly and screaming about the pouring rain. A taxicab pulled up, the driver lowering the window to ask after the person who called him. Three passengers climbed in, talking loudly. Only one was left behind, and he waved them off before stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets and hunching his shoulders. He ducked his head and hurried over to the bus shelter.

            _Keep walking, buster,_ Lassiter said in his head. _Get your bearings and go._

            Unfortunately, the world didn’t think Lassiter was miserable enough.

            The man shook water droplets off himself and checked the bus schedule, then sat down on the bench.

            “Crazy weather, huh?” he said with a smile. The stranger ran a hand through his drooping brown hair, attempting to fix it up to no avail.

            Lassiter grunted.

            He blinked as a hand was thrust at him, and glared sullenly at it. Begrudgingly, Lassiter unfolded his arms and shook it.

            “Shawn,” said the man. “Shawn Spencer.”

            “Lassiter,” he responded. “Head Det. Lassiter.”

            Shawn nodded slowly, giving the officer a queer look. Lassiter didn’t give a damn; it wasn’t necessary to supply a first name.

            “Where’s your jurisdiction?”

            Lassiter started at the question. “Here. Santa Barbara.”

            Shawn nodded again, squinting across the street. “Oh. Okay. My dad was a detective for the SBPD.”

            “Your dad’s Henry Spencer?”

            “Yep. You knew him?”

            “Not personally,” Lassiter shrugged. “He was a good cop.”

            “Yeah. Not the best father.”

            Lassiter bit back the immediate retort that at least Henry had been a father at all, unlike his own. Instead, he merely said, “Too bad.”

            Shawn clicked his tongue and scraped his shoes against the wet cement. “What are you doing here, Lassie?”

            “It’s Lassiter. And I don’t think what I’m doing is any of your business, Spencer.”

            “Oh, come on,” Shawn cajoled. “What, are you working a case?” He peered through the sheets of rain again. “Staking out that shop? Is it gonna get robbed tonight?”

            Lassiter ground his teeth. “I’m waiting for the bus.”

            “Really?” Shawn glanced at the bus schedule again. “But the bus doesn’t run tonight.”

            “Of course it does,” Lassiter scoffed. “It’s Friday night.”

            “Oh, right,” Shawn said. “Friday. I thought it was Sunday.”

            “Who the hell goes drinking on a Sunday night?” Lassiter grimaced.

            “People who don’t work on Monday mornings,” Shawn replied. “And alcoholics. And possibly psychics who are trying to get more in tune with slightly drunk spirits.”

            Lassiter stared at him. “Psychics,” he repeated blandly.

            “Yes.” Shawn extended his hand again. “I’m a psychic detective. Shawn Spencer, PPI.”

            “PPI.”

            “Psychic Private Investigator.”

            Lassiter ignored the hand in favor of looking up and down the street again. Where the hell was that damn bus? He was _not_ going to spend this rainy night with some wacko claiming to see dead people.

            Shawn lowered his hand. “Hey, what do you do for fun?”

            “Shoot things.”

            “Oh, I see. What kind of gun do you have? Standard issue? Or personal?”

            Lassiter perked up a bit at the prospect of gun talk, but he was also wary. Spencer had already proven himself to be some kind of a psycho. No need to heighten the chances of a weapon landing in his hands. “I’ve got a Glock 17.”

            “Sweet,” Shawn said. “I don’t own a gun, personally. Too much trouble to take care of. I can barely take care of myself.”

            The detective did not disagree.

            “Do you have a bucket list?”

            “What?”

            “A bucket list,” Shawn persisted. “Do you have a list of things that you’ve always wanted to accomplish?”

            “What, like before I die?”

            “Yeah, sure.”

            Lassiter shrugged, face twisted in a half-scowl. “I don’t know. Never really thought about it.”

            “There has to be something,” Shawn said. “Dude, I’ve got lots of things on my list.” He began to count off his fingers: “Win a hotdog eating contest. Win a pie eating contest. Meet Tears for Fears. Clone myself and Gus—that’s my best friend. Climb Mt Everest. Become the Six Million Dollar Man. Buy out Trump Tower. Learn how to program computer software—“

            “Okay, I think I get it,” Lassiter interrupted, pressing his fingers into his temple where a headache was forming.

            “So?”

            “So what?”

            “What’s your bucket list?” Shawn slapped a hand down on the bench between them. “Come on, Lassie, dude!”

            “Why do you care?!”

            “It’s important,” Shawn insisted. “Trust me.”

            “Trust you?” Lassiter repeated. “Trust _you,_ the random stranger whom I’ve never met before in my life, who claims to be a psychic private investigator?”

            “Yes.”

            “No. Not happening, Spencer.”

            Shawn frowned. They sat in sweet, blissful silence.

“Seriously, why are you here, man?”

            So much for quiet.

            Lassiter exhaled slowly out of his nose, counting to ten inwardly like his therapist had taught him. “I am waiting for the bus.”

            Shawn shook his head and gave him a frustrated look. But the expression quickly smoothed over. “No,” he emphasized. “I mean, why are you still _here_?” He waved his hands around vaguely.

            “Dear God,” Lassiter intoned under his breath. _This guy’s losing it. If he hasn’t lost it already. Freaking psycho…Maybe if I ignore him he’ll leave me be._

            “Lassie.”

            The detective pretended not to hear.

            “Lassiter.”

            He checked his watch for the hundredth time, and bit back a curse as he noticed that it was no longer working. Must be waterlogged or something. The hands were stuck on 8:58.

            “Detective.”

            Lassiter drummed his fingers against his knee. He half considered taking refuge back in Tom Blair’s. After a few minutes with this guy, he needed another drink.

            “Carlton.”

            He froze, though it took a few seconds for him to realize why. Lassiter turned slowly to Shawn, eyes wide. His hand inched towards his holster. “I never told you my first name.”

            “I told you,” Shawn replied simply. “I’m psychic.”

            “I don’t know who the hell you are,” Lassiter growled—

            “—Shawn Spencer, PPI—“

            “—but I will haul you into the station and charge you with stalking—“

            “—I’m not stalking—“

            “—and loitering!”

            “—you’re the one loitering, Lassie.”

            “I’m waiting for the bus!”

            “You’ve been waiting for a bus that will never come,” Shawn said. “They shut this line down years ago.”

            “That’s ridiculous. I rode it last week.”

            “They shut it down. A driver went all Rambo on his passengers. Killed seventeen people, injured several more. Some got out okay.”

            “What the hell are you talking about?” Lassiter asked. The rain seemed to pound harder than ever, making it difficult to hear. “Do you _hear_ yourself, Spencer?”

            “There was an officer waiting for the bus,” Shawn continued, as though oblivious to Lassiter’s disbelief. “He managed to take out the driver—shot him clean through the windshield. But the bus was still moving. Hit the officer and killed him instantly. He was a hero.”

            “That never happened! For the love of Mike, if something like that had happened, it would have been all over the news.”

            “It was. Friday, May 11, 2001. 9:00 pm.”

            “That was five years ago,” Lassiter said dismissively. “I would have heard.”

            “You’re really dense,” Shawn commented. “Seriously, I’ve met a ton of dead people, but you really take the cake for denial.”

            Lassiter pointed a finger at him. “ _You…_ are in _sane_.”

            “Maybe,” Shawn agreed. He pushed Lassiter’s hand out of his face. “But _you_ …are _dead._ ”

            “Shut up.”

            He stood and stalked off into the torrential downpour. There was no need to sit and listen to some weirdo with a false sense of history.

            “Why are you still here?” Shawn called. “You saved them! You did good, Lassie!”

            Lassiter stepped out into the street to cross it—

            and was suddenly blinded by a bright light.

            He lifted his hand to shield his eyes, hearing the screeching of tires deafeningly in his ears. He was going to be struck by a vehicle, and there was nothing he could do to stop the tons of crushing steel. Despite this logic, his academy training kicked in and he pulled his Glock 17 from the shoulder holster.

            Lassiter felt the impact—brief, jarring, startling—and his trigger finger clenched impulsively. The gun discharged—

            and he stumbled, crashing hard against the pavement. There was no light, no accident, no weapon in his hand. Only the dark and stormy night. Lassiter looked back. Shawn was still standing under the bus shelter, but as eye contact was made he surged forward and came to help Lassiter up.

            “All right?”

            “…Fine.” Lassiter shoved off his hand and stood up on his own terms. His heart was still racing.

            Shawn squinted at him, water running in rivulets down his face. His hairstyle was unsalvageable, but he didn’t seem to mind. “You remember.”

            It wasn’t a question.

            “I didn’t save anyone,” Lassiter said. “It was an accident.” He rubbed a shaking hand down his face. “I’m no hero.”

            “Would you rather have been hit by the bus and not shot the driver, who was killing his passengers?”

            “No. But I shouldn’t be honored for—for nothing.”

            “I wouldn’t say a lucky shot is nothing. Hell, everything _I_ do is lucky. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t mean anything.”

            Lassiter shook his head, soaked hair flopping.

            Shawn put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, Las…Carlton. Whether you meant to do it or not, you _saved_ them. They’re still alive now because you pulled your gun on an oncoming behemoth of a bus. And I promise you, they’re grateful.”

            Lassiter scoffed. “I’m _sure_ they’d still be grateful if they knew it was an accident.”

            The psychic beamed at him. “I _am_ grateful, Lassie. You saved me, too.”

            The detective looked up sharply, and only found genuineness.

            “So, I guess I just wanted to say,” Shawn glanced away for a second as he gathered his thoughts, then back at Lassiter. “I want to say, thank you. Seriously,” he chuckled. “Thank you.”

            Lassiter swallowed thickly. As much as he hated to admit it, Shawn’s words actually made him feel better. “I…” he started, but he had nothing to say.

            “Thank you,” Shawn repeated forcibly. “Just…go wherever you gun-toting detectives go in the afterlife. Enjoy yourself.” He lifted a hand in farewell. “Thanks, Lassie. Thank you.”

            Carlton smiled warmly, then turned and walked away as the rain finally let up. Perhaps Santa Barbara skies were sunny, after all.

End.


End file.
